Stephen Sprouse

Stephen Spouse has a lovely little show right now at Jeffrey Deitch's Soho project space. I went to the 'opening' with co-worker Alex on Friday only to discover that it was a big fat fake opening, wildly overshadowed by the REAL opening the night before. We, apparently, weren't invited to the opening where Debbie Harry performed in a dress looking vaguely like a squirrel and where Marc Jacobs toasted champagne with Louis Vuitton himself. WE went to the opening that served only free postcards and florescent lighting. Ho hum.

But come on... Stephen Sprouse is completely wrong in florescent lights. His work should worn in the dark at 3am by a too-skinny model and a side of cocaine and not in bright lights at 5:30pm by a too-skinny mannequin with a side of small talk. The show wasn't brilliant... but the work was.

If you don't think you know who Stephen Sprouse is, you actually do. He trademarked the sharpie-scribble that we commonly associate with sharpies and nothing else. Marc Jacobs designed a collection of handbags showcasing the scribble inspired of Sprouse a few years ago for Louis Vuitton. This was unfortunately replaced by the horrific Takashi Murakami bags (blechk) and then again for something resembling spray paint. I, reader, actually have no idea what I'm talking about when it comes to fashion, so I'll stop here.

What I do (kind of) know is art, and without any prior knowledge, both Alex and I were pointing out Sprouse's peer influences the entire evening. We could see Gilbert & George, Keith Haring, Warhol (obvs.), and even Giotto (stretch? maybe.) Together, they held a clear world view wrapped around Studio 54, eyeliner, neon, and the New York City 'in'. (Hence Debbie Harry.)

But to me, what made this show so very fascinating was Sprouse's extreme success in such a narrow niche and seemingly lack of depth. He scribbled repeated words on Van der Rohe chairs and blew up pink Polaroid snapshots of speakers and tabloids and stood back in awe of his own brilliance. Warhol had already announced his own presence and Sprouse simply designed around an era. His muse was a decade, not a thought or a lyric. But his work is about the party and a party it was.

And if Spouse's world was about the 'in', Alex and I clearly didn't have it. And maybe that was the point. To truly experience Sprouse's greatness, we needed an in. And as we left with our free postcards and our coats never-in-check we suddenly turned into the girls who weren't invited to the party. Two confident, independent, semi-smart women immediately shrunk into the girls watching the red carpet from the sidelines, lame as can be.

And looking right through us were the original New York City glamour kids--Sprouse, Warhol, Sedgwick, Harry, and Duran Duran. Perhaps I'm biased because I don't like Jeffery Deitch (well, no one actually likes Jeffery Deitch.) but we did feel slightly taken. Yes, Sprouse succeeded in the end. His point was clearly met. For he trumped us. For sure.

Hedda Gabler

Hedda Gabler is my very favorite type of female character-- beautiful and mean. She follows in line with Estella, Scarlet, Blanche, Tracey, Ingrid, and Elizabeth. (A gold star for the first to place each name. One isn't actually a character, but a real person. That is your only hint.)

Mary-Louise Parker, who I'm obsessed with, is starring in Ibsen's Hedda Gabler on Broadway. And I sat fifth row center last night. (This is why I live in New York. Because I can read about something on the train, then have an opening preview ticket in my hand thirty minutes later. This alone makes all the bad stuff worth it. It just does.)

Parker was phenomenal. As predicted. As told by NY Mag, in the past decade no fewer than three major names have played Ibsen's manipulative leading lady here: Kate Burton (acclaimed on Broadway), Cate Blanchett (ditto at BAM), and now Mary-Louise Parker. Its said to be the single most sought after role for female actors today, and I can see why. Its a firecracker role. And Parker stunningly ripped it to shreds with her perfect timing and biting glances. She made the role fresh, big, and contemporary. We couldn't take our eyes off of her.

Now, Henrik Ibsen was a big deal at my college... the Scand's LOVE him. This of course made me reject him for many years, I found the Ibsen-gush-fests incredibly boring. He was, to me, the tip of pretension and it made me yawn. I know I wouldn't have seen this show had Mary-Louise not taken top billing, and I have to admit that I did swallow a bit of my better-than-Ibsen mantra and completely enjoyed the script. He knows how to write a leading lady.

In Hedda Gabler, Ibsen explored psychological conflicts that transcended a simple rejection of Victorian conventions. This was shocking at the time, and still quite shocking today. While we have just about had enough of crazy-suburban-entrapment stories, we don't often see a housewife shinning her pistols and shooting at the neighbors for fun. Its delicious theater.

Parker's deadpan annoyance and flat sarcasm juiced up Hedda like never before. The curtains open to a seemingly hung-over Hedda waking up to a room filled with sheet-covered furniture. She stands up slowly and begins to fling off the sheets with disgust, pushing around chairs, and clearing off tables with a fell swoop. She walks lazily and bored, but with fire in her eyes.

She speaks to her dewy-eyed husband with clear annoyance and curt responses. She offends everyone accidental-on-purpose, and shoves bouquets of flowers to the floor before torching their greetings in the wood burning stove. See... you would want to play her too.

The twist in Hedda comes from the idea that despite her awfulness, her terrifying meanness, we want Hedda to come out on top. We are cheering for her to escape her suffocating marriage to the boring, academic, bald man and to run off with her crazy and unstable old flame. But she doesn't. As I've said before, stupid Melanie Wilkes will always get Ashley. Hubble will never chose Katie. The boring nice girl will come out on top and the terribly gorgeous vixen will remain alone and fiery and ever-angry.

But that's okay... in the end, Ibsen gave us something even better than love. He gave us freedom and bravery. Sure, it was in the form of suicide (ha.) but it was an absolute triumph for our femme fatale. That gunshot made our mouths water.

In addition to one of best plays I've seen on Broadway, my evening was capped by lovely surprise. I scored a new best friend. Her name is Bubbles and she's 80 years old and she wears sparkly gold glasses and a fur coat. I had already made up my mind to NOT talk to those around me... I wasn't in the mood for chatter. But when I stood to let this tiny white-haired woman take her seat, she exclaimed something that I took as, "My, you are tall!" (I get this ALL of the time. Like, three times a day.) To which I gave my current automatic response... a bored "Yep, I know. Very tall." To which she responded, "No, I said you're gorgeous!" to which I responded, "Well, I like you." The rest is history.

We talked about New York, and shows we've seen and her failed attempt at an art gallery and her summers on the cape. We talked about how sad it is that publishing is taking a hit and may never recover, and about our shared love for the Times Art section (its the only section I read daily, we both admitted.) We agreed that seeing theater alone is the only way to go, yet we're seeing Becky Shaw together sometime next week. The crazy adventures of Bubbles and Sarah: more to follow.

Performance Art: An Explanation.

New York Magazine, who never fails me, published a FANTASTIC article this week explaining performance art. I have been wondering about this forever, and finally got a good explanation this morning on the train. How do you sell a kiss? How do you buy a scream? How do you price an overnight stay in a gallery without food or water and only a knife ladder for days on end?

Contemporary art is retail... people always forget this. Money has made the art world what it is today and money is what will keep it pumping for the next bajillian years. In order to become a someone you must sell your work. That is a fact. Yet post-post-Modernism brought an array of artists who created intangible pieces of phenomenal worth. They made art out of action and made the Dadaists look like stuffy antique dealers. But the problem remains... how do you sell as kiss?

Turns out... you start a conversation with the most brilliant and influential minds living today and figure. it. out. See below.

Collecting Smoke
How does a museum acquire art that vanishes the moment it’s made?
By Erica Orden
Published Dec 28, 2008

You might think of Pipilotti Rist’s show—a multimedia installation with much of the room-dominating quality of performance art—as a teaser for MoMA’s huge new commitment to performance. MoMA will in late January launch a two-year series of live pieces, both new and re-created. It will all culminate in 2010 with a retrospective devoted to Marina Abramovic, the self-described “grandmother of performance art.” And last June, MoMA quietly bought its first pure performance work, Tino Sehgal’s Kiss.

Klaus Biesenbach, who curated the Rist show, is the man charged with acquiring this kind of art—and doing it soon. After all, the first generation of performance artists appeared 40 years ago, and MoMA wants to make sure their work outlives them. Which can be tricky. “How do you create, conserve, preserve a moment?” Biesenbach asks. In some cases there’s nothing to buy: no film, no props. MoMA was stumped, and so is nearly everyone else. (The Tate, in London, and the Walker Art Center, in Minneapolis, are also going down this road.) “There are no precedents here,” says MoMA’s director, Glenn Lowry.

So the museum marshaled some troops—namely, 80 of the most influential forces in art—and, last March, started scheduling private workshops to figure out some rules for preserving ephemeral art. Biesenbach invited in artists (like Abramovic, Matthew Barney, and Francesco Vezzoli), curators (the Whitney’s Chrissie Iles and Shamim Momin), and performers of all kinds (Antony Hegarty of Antony and the Johnsons, Laurie Anderson, Jason Sellards of the Scissor Sisters). “The sessions go on forever—like, hours,” Biesenbach says. “People just do not leave.” They addressed everything from the discrepancies between a performance and its remnants to legal quirks to the appropriateness of an institution’s owning work created to subvert institutions.

Purchasing Kiss was especially complex, because the hallmark of Sehgal’s work is that it’s undocumented. (In the piece, couples dance, touch, and make out for two choreographed hours.) There’s no script or manual. The how-to is passed on orally, like a folktale—which is how MoMA sealed the deal, with a spoken contract. The artist will explain its workings to a curator; he or she will pass it on, down the road; and MoMA will have the rights to reproduce the performance forever. (The work is an edition of four; two other museums have bought it so far. And it can be lent, like a painting.) Will that be the norm? “This may sound like a cop-out,” Momin says, “but you can’t answer these questions with a general rule. You have to be specific for each one.”

Robert Taplin

Aaron and I hit up Chelsea last night for a long overdue evening of gallery hopping. Of the many galleries we visited, Winston Wachter's Robert Taplin show clearly stole the evening.

Taplin presented a crazy show based on Dante's Inferno in a series of nine dioramas, for lack of better terms, in a super-surreal, trippy perspective. He highlights Dante’s role in the narrative by portraying his figure in full color. The rest of the characters and figures, including Beatrice and Virgil, are cast in resin and appear to be glow-in-the-dark (I hope they really are, but I couldn't tell.)

A few noted changes in the gallery world post-recession:
1) More galleries offer free wine/beer at openings. To lure 'em in. It works.
2) The free wine/beer is gone faster at openings, as people are taking advantage of these free drinks. We arrived around 7 and only stupid Perrier was left. Not interested.
3) WAY more group shows... this is the gallery equivalent to a 'warehouse clearance sale.'
4) Safer shows, oftentimes more cynical shows (Taplin was of the later)
5) More people in attendance, but there to look, not to buy (like me.)
6) Doomsday tones. (Me: Love the show! How is everything in the new year!? Every galleriest in Chelsea: Well, I'd be lying if I said it was good.) Ugh.

There are also more people at Half King, which, lets be honest, is one of the best parts of gallery openings... the re-hash afterwards with whoever we find in the area... last night we ran into Sabrina, ALWAYS a blast. We argued about Doubt, about Slumdog, about art and life and relationships. We drank free beer on my trade account and made friends with our friends' friends. I love New York.

Vito Schnabel

I only read celeb gossip on airplanes about twice a year. This surprises most people, I don't know why. However... work today involved hassling the Schnabel fam, and I couldn't help but look this kid up. 23 year old Vito Schnabel is so cool that his website only says this.

He reps Ron Gorchov and is currently showing Terence Koh's Flowers for Baudelaire in (ready for some name dropping?) Richard Avedon's old studio. Anna Wintor, Simon dePury, Agathe Snow, Rita Ackerman, Mary Boone, and Thaddeaus Ropac were also in attendance. Damn.

He is projected to be one of the best art dealers of our time. AND he is (was?) dating Elle McPherson. So cool.

Is anyone wondering what the Schnabel Family did for Thanksgiving? I am!

This Thanksgiving, paterfamilias Julian Schnabel gathered the clan to his Montauk home for the feast. That would be his three children—Vito Maria, 20, Stella Madrid, 22, Lola Montes, 25—from his first marriage to clothing designer Jacqueline Beaurang, and his twin boys, Cy and Olmo, 13, from his current wife, Olatz Lopez Garmendia.

“My dad will cook a ham and Oltaz will make the chickens—this year, she also made some delicious risotto. My dad doesn’t eat birds,” said Vito Schnabel by phone on Dec. 11. The budding art dealer-curator was in Miami, where he had spent a week at Art Basel Miami Beach in search of the “next young artist.” “We enjoyed some wine and then jumped in the pool,” he said. “Later, we sat by the fire.”

“We talk about all kinds of things. Art, movies, people, family, everything …. I don’t know—what do you talk about with your family?” said the young Mr. Schnabel.

“There are a lot of strong personalities in the family,” he said. His sister Stella is a poet and an actress. Lola is a painter and filmmaker. The twins, well, they’re 13—but no harm in prospecting.

“My little brother Cy loves to paint. He did a great painting of his dogs that hangs about his bed,” said Vito. “Olmo is a film nut. We’ll be watching The Deer Hunter, and he’ll be able to recite the whole cast and knows the movie backwards and forwards.”

Some celebrities are interesting. I can't help it.

Frankie's

Go here. And get the antipasta plate and the $5 house red. Kim, Al, and I had a lovely late dinner at Frankie's in Brooklyn on Saturday. Its Alison's favorite and it absolutely lived up to her high praises. They have a second location on the Lower East Side, with four tables and a long wait, but we prefer the Brooklyn local for its humble sweetness. Its off the beaten path, somewhere in Carroll Gardens but not the cool part.

We had a blast eating olives off each other's plates, arguing about Philip Seymore Hoffman's level of attractiveness, and listening to Interpol on Kim's ipod until 12am. Late long dinners=my favorite thing.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Everyone has been telling me to see this movie, and the post-holiday-everything prevented me from going until now. I saw Benjamin Button in the village this afternoon and wowza, this film deserves merit. I fell in love with it.

Its a grand film, in line with Forest Gump, as they share writer Eric Roth. Roth adapted the tale from a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, one of my very favorite writers. Its the most nourishing and satisfyingly long film that I've seen in a while. It had that grand swoop that kept us interested and climaxed just when we were ready. We left full and content, with the sweetest of tastes left lingering.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is a film about time, a relatively neutral idea until thought about backwards. Its that very simple concept of time that kept our attention for the entire three hours as we understood that this was a movie about a lifetime... it wouldn't end prematurely.

We held our breath as Benjamin and Daisy grew closer in age, knowing what was coming. The meeting was nothing short of spectacular. I can say with complete sincerity that the love shared between these two characters for that brief span (of, what, fifteen years? ten?) was one of my favorite love stories. The shots were gorgeous and life filled and completely joyous. I realize that the brevity is what made it such and that's okay.

Sometimes the best love stories are those that remain rose-colored and cherished simply because both players know what's fleeting. A clarity of what's important, what matters, and what constitutes priority is much better understood with a deadline involved. Love can be acted out in its fullest because the maybes are removed. When we know it can never last, we want it that much more. However, because of the finality, because of the known end... they are the most heartbreaking as well.

The animation was incredible. I didn't know what to expect and was prepared to be weirded out by 80-70-60 year old Brad. But he played it well and the make-up/digital team deserves props. Brad successfully aged backwards not only because of the special effects but also because of his placement. He was placed in a fairy tale, not a gritty, uber realistic world. We believed it as we believe in Pinocchio or ET. Because its a mere story and why not just go with it.

Speaking of Brad... has anyone ever been that attractive?! I don't remember the last actor that mesmerized us in the way that 40-20 year old Brad Pitt did. We were anxiously waiting for him to reach the Brad we know and when he finally settled into self I GASPED. Even better looking we were anticipating. GORGEOUS human being. He was Robert Redford reincarnate but with more chiseled features and a saucier smile. YUM.

Cate Blanchett was also the textbook definition of beautiful, with her long red hair and graceful lines. She moved like a dancer and talked like a performer, and each age was captured with such dead-on gusto. 20-something New York Modernist Cate reminded me a little too much of myself with her naive passion and undeserved resolution. At the same time, 35-45 year old Cate was who I want to become... someone who understands what is important and what is deserving of her time and energy. I loved that they spent most of their time on that mattress... laughing, dancing, kissing, talking, reading, loving. The 'duplex years' was such a fantastic sequence.

The accident scene was also lovely, as it brought light to the idea of human connectedness. It demonstrates how every little thing we do does affect everything else... the It's A Wonderful Life theme on scary-true terms. Had the woman not forgotten her coat, the cab driver not stopped for coffee, the store clerk not broken up with her boyfriend, the gift had not been wrapped... Daisy would not have been hit by a car.

It isn't an extraordinary idea, its the most common truth of all. We know on some level that our lives are the result of others, we just aren't able to track it as Benjamin did for us. When we see each step that lead up to a pivotal moment, we understand that everything is an intersection of lives and incidents.

Benjamin and Daisy eventually did pass to a place where the love affair had to end. As I said before, we knew it would come and so did they. The story wrapped up quickly from there, aging Daisy and taking Benjamin far from his self and his mind. It definitely alluded that we enter and leave this world in the same state. They have seen everything, know everything, and have survived everything, yet all they want to talk about is the weather, observes Benjamin.

The film touched on very profound truths about life and death and endings and beginnings. This was only palpable as it was piggybacked by wonderfully light interludes like the man being struck seven times by lightning, and Benjamin's deadpan explanations of his condition. They say I will die soon... but maybe not.

Some will say that this film was too long, but I disagree. It needed the length for breathing room and fullness. My only real complaint is how they told the story... I don't think that Daisy in the deathbed during Katrina was necessary. I would have preferred an unseen narrator to the daughter's stale prose. I simply don't understand how those scenes added to the film or to the story. If only they asked me first... :)

Benjamin Button will stay with me for a long time. Everything from Queenie's heart and generosity to Daisy's self involved grace touched me to the core. I loved the themes of acceptance and longevity and connection. It was done very, very well. However, we are obviously left with the question of what we would do... could we love someone that we know would have to leave us? The answer is simple: If he looked anything like Brad Pitt, even a moment would sustain us for a lifetime. Amen.